“Devin, I’m going to cut out of here. Here’s the copy for Sneaker Hut. Is there anything you need from me before I go?”
Devin gave me the “one-minute” finger as he finished scribbling something on a piece of paper. He dropped his pen on the page in front of him and looked up at me then, offering a sheepish smile. He knew I was still angry with our latest encounter, and I guessed the awkward grin was meant as some sort of apology. Not that he’d ever actually admit it.
“No, thank you, Layla. That will be all. Have a nice weekend.”
I started to turn on my heel and was almost home free when his voice stopped me in my tracks. “Actually, Miss Warren? There was just one quick thing I needed to go over with you.”
It was never quick with Devin. I’m sure my shoulders visibly slumped as I turned back around and took a seat in one of the club chairs.
He came around and sat on the edge of his desk, sneaking a hasty glance out to the floor before asking, “We still on for dinner tonight?”
I met his eyes, not trying to hide my disappointment at our latest argument, but answered, “Of course. We are celebrating our anniversary, are we not?”
Devin’s lips curled back into a playful leer, his perfectly straight, white teeth gleaming down at me. “I’d like to think we did a pretty good job of celebrating the other night.”
I ran my fingertips over the diamond ring, blushing inwardly at the memory of just exactly how we’d spent the night “celebrating” our anniversary. I smiled in spite of myself, but didn’t indulge his leading comment. “No way, Fields. You’re not robbing me of a meal at Ocean. I’ve been looking forward to their sea bass all week.”
He smiled, gave another quick peek toward his door and risked a chuck under my chin before dismissing me back to my desk.
Public display of affection between two employees, especially when the couple is comprised of a senior editor and a lowly copywriter, was not at all acceptable at Howell House.
Chapter 3
MISS CONGENIALITY
Once I finally got home from work, I raced into my room, stripped out of my work clothes and replaced them with my favorite, ratty, Duran Duran T-shirt in order to start my ready ritual. I glimpsed the reunion postcard on my nightstand, and was suddenly reminded of the crazy dream I’d had about Trip that morning. Weird that such a vivid dream could have been brought on by nothing more than the news of a high school reunion. I hadn’t even seen him in ages, at least not in person, anyway. He and I had exchanged a bunch of letters the first few years I was in college, but they’d started coming less frequently, eventually stopping altogether.
I was pretty heartbroken that my high school sweetheart had gone off and found some Big New Life to attend to, and that I hadn’t ranked as something important enough for him to hold onto from his old one. Anytime I allowed myself to think about it, it felt like breaking up with him all over again. Which was stupid to think, because he and I hadn’t even been anywhere near each other for years by that point.
But it still hurt. I’m not going to lie and say it didn’t.
The few boyfriends I’d had in college never quite measured up. They were normally good-looking, decent, fun guys, and most of them were fine, really. But sooner or later, I’d find myself making comparisons. Either their hair was too blond or not blond enough. Their eyes were not quite the right shade of blue, or their laughs were just a bit too flat. It was truly pathetic, and trust me, I knew what I was doing to myself. But I couldn’t help it. My abandonment issues ran too deep, and I’d only recently gained some semblance of control over my OCD.
Finally, after a few years of putting those poor, unsuspecting guys through the wringer, I decided to just stop comparing. After dozens of failed evaluations, I realized the system just might be skewed and I needed to recalibrate the standards. There was no substitute for Terrence Chester Wilmington the Third. There never would be.
But the fact was, Trip was gone and he wasn’t coming back. I mean, he was my high school boyfriend, and high school was over, right? Didn’t that mean that we were, too? At least that’s what I told myself.
I seized onto a deception, turned our love into myth. Tried to believe that our relationship had simply been exaggerated, overblown, teenaged fantasy. That a love like that couldn’t have been real, that it didn’t really happen. I may have been lying to myself, but I did what I had to do in order to get me through another day.
The days turned into months; the months turned into years. The more years that went by, the more life just happened. By the time I’d graduated college, I’d already fooled myself into believing I had moved on.
And then I met Devin.
*